


Just Another Day on Kyril Island

by Gwynne



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwynne/pseuds/Gwynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's not much to do on Kyril Island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Day on Kyril Island

Corporal Mikhaill Denov hurried into the main office. There was always a small window of opportunity, hopefully he hadn’t missed it. He nodded to the sergeant manning the desk outside the door to the inner office, “Am I in time?”

Sergeant Andrei Bakunin nodded, “Just barely. Better move it.”

Mikhaill hurried past him into the lion’s den. He marched up to the desk and saluted. “Sir.”

There was already a bottle on the desk, and the glass beside it was half full. Hopefully it was still the first glass of the day.

His CO blinked blearily at him, “What?”

No, probably the second glass. Or the third.

“The daily orders, sir. For you to sign.”

“Oh? What have I ordered them to do today, Mikhaill?”

“Normal maintenance, sir. And rewiring for the weather sensors on the western stations. Also an overhaul of the scat-cats. And a stocktake of the base food stores. Sir.”

“I’m a real bastard for getting work out of them, aren’t I.” He reached blearily for a stylus and began scrawling his signature across the top flimsy in the pile, then flipped it aside to start on the others. “All these orders – do you know, there are two kinds of orders, Mikhaill?”

The corporal started scooping up the scattered flimsies, and sighed silently. Here we go. “Yes sir?”

“Legal and illegal.” Vorkosigan took a deep breath ready to launch into his favourite diatribe.

In his head Mikhaill added gloomily, ‘legal, illegal and bloody stupid’. Then settled into parade rest to wait out the flow of words.

Eventually Vorkosigan ran down and took another gulp of whatever rotgut he was on today. Unfortunately his voice was the last thing to go. Already he might be incapable of walking unassisted, but he’d be able to talk for hours yet. And he probably would.

There was a pause while he drank, so Mikhaill grabbed the opportunity, “I’ll just issue these orders, sir, yes?” He was out the door before Vorkosigan could answer.

He settled behind his own desk – closer to the outer door than Andrei’s, in strict order of precedence. It was so important to be seen to preserve good military order when there wasn’t any. He tapped the comconsole and sent the daily orders on their way, then leaned back, “By the spirits, that man can talk. He’s back on the ‘illegal orders’ thing.”

Andrei looked up, “At least he doesn’t sing. The last one sang. Badly.”

Mikhaill grimaced, “And he doesn’t order us to drink with him, like the one before that.” Mikhaill was the only teetotaller on the base. It gave him immeasurable power, in their frozen little world. He didn’t abuse it. Mostly. Except when that lout Calorinos stole all the fruit tarts Mikhaill’s wife had sent him for his birthday. Calorinos had been on latrine duty ever since. And drain cleaning. And any other cold, miserable job Mikhaill could find for him.

Both men were silent for a moment, thinking about some of their previous commandants, and their problems. Drinking didn’t count, they all drank. And this one wasn’t nearly as bad as the others in most ways, except for – well, nobody was perfect. And he didn’t do it very often. And the young men – they got over it. Eventually.

“One of us had better get back in there until he winds down. Toss you for it,” Andrei scrabbled through his pockets for a coin.

The sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway made them both glance up. Sergeant Chernsky stomped in, followed by a two-man dis-honour guard almost dragging a miserable specimen wearing soggy, mud-stained fatigues. He glanced towards the inner door, “He in?”

Andrei nodded, “Of course.”

“Conscious?”

“For a while yet.”

“Damn.”

“What’s up?” Andrei leaned back in his chair and surveyed the bedraggled lump of misery the guards had dropped on the floor before they marched out again.

Chernsky nudged the miscreant gently with one foot, “Stupid Greekie hick can’t read a map. Or he doesn’t listen to orders, since he probably can’t read anyway. This idiot - ” He nudged him again as the lump emitted a miserable whimper “ – has just got himself put on report for taking a scat-cat and parking it in the middle of a bog. A scat-cat-eating mud patch that’s clearly marked on every map. So he’s on report for stupidity.”

The corporal looked him over, “He looks a bit grubby.”

“Damn idiot nearly drowned himself. Losing the scat-cat was worse. It’ll take us all day to dig it out, and they’re never the same after. We only have a handful of scat-cats. We have an endless supply of idiot Greekie hicks.” He dropped a data chip on Mikhaill’s desk, then nudged the lump again, but not too hard. His voice was exasperated rather than contemptuous. “Anyway, can you two list this idiot on report, and get… him…. to sign off on it. No need to … bother him…”

They all glanced at the closed door. Each man shuddered as he remembered what happened to enlisted men who were put on report and attracted the Commandant’s attention.

Andrei looked at Mikhaill, “Perhaps we can…slip it in with tomorrow’s daily orders…”

“I’ll see to it.”

“See to what?”

Andrei and Mikhaill sprang to their feet and snapped to attention, as Chernsky also stood to. The lump on the floor scrambled up, unfolding into a tall, thin, good-looking young man covered in mud stains and a woebegone expression.

“What is it you’re seeing to?” Vorkosigan repeated, leaning against the doorway. Mikhaill sighed inwardly – damn man had hearing like a bat. And he’d been oiling the door hinges again. The man hated closed doors, and he liked to open them very quietly.

Andrei and Chernsky looked at each other. The two sergeants sent a few quick telepathic messages, then Andrei stepped forward, “Minor disciplinary matter, sir. We can deal with it.”

“Discipline?”

Everyone in the room who wasn’t Aral Vorkosigan, or covered in mud, froze. Andrei forced himself to nod, “Yes sir. Minor matter, sir. Very minor. We won’t bother you with it.”

He received a smile that could lie on a sandbank and snap at unsuspecting prey, “Oh but I like being bothered, sergeant. Makes a pleasant change from my usual routine.”

Nobody dared comment that his usual routine generally involved being passed out drunk by noon.

“Corporal!” Mikhaill snapped to even more attention at the steel in Vorkosigan’s voice, “Fill in the charge sheet and bring it in to me.” He turned to go, then swung back again, “And some coffee.” Then he grinned again, “Sergeant!” Both of them braced. “Sergeants. Have this unfortunate young man cleaned up and put him into a fresh uniform. Then bring him back to me. For his discipline.”

He turned away again. The men all waited to be sure that he was reeling back to his desk, then they relaxed slightly. Chernsky looked at the miscreant, “I’m sorry, lad, I did my best, but you had very poor timing.”

Andrei nodded as he followed the others out of the office, “It’ll be just like the last time. Or worse. Just remember, boy, you brought it on yourself. And that nothing lasts forever. Hold on to that thought.”

Mikhaill sighed, sat down and scooped up the data chip, then started entering details on the comconsole. Poor sod, so young, and he had no idea what was coming.

Half an hour and a pot of coffee later, Vorkosigan looked alert and focussed. Which meant that he was still drunk as a skunk, but in control. Mikhaill had been busy with the charge sheet, the coffee, and a few other essential supplies demanded by Vorkosigan, transformed now from his usual melancholy to eager anticipation.

The sound of tramping feet heralded the return of the sergeants, and their prisoner. He looked a lot better without the mud, he was a handsome boy, couldn’t be long out of training, with olive skin, dark eyes and black hair left just long enough to curl. He looked worried, as he should. The sergeants had probably been warning him, not that there was much anyone could do. His fate was sealed now.

All three of them marched up to the commandant’s desk and saluted, “Prisoner reporting as ordered, sir!” Andrei kept his voice steady.

“Prisoner…Koropoulis. Christos. Well, you’ve been placed on report for dereliction of duty and damaging camp property. Those are serious charges.” He glared at the young man, who tried not to shuffle his feet. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Prompted by a glare from each sergeant, the young man gulped, “No sir.”

“And you’ve been brought here for discipline. Young men definitely need discipline. Luckily for you, I can help with that.” He looked at the sergeants, “Dismissed.”

Regretfully, not looking at their former prisoner, the two men saluted and marched out.

“And close the door.”

Andrei shut the door quietly. Chernsky grimaced, “Thought he didn’t like closed doors?”

“This is … different.”

“How long will ….it take?”

Andrei shrugged and collapsed into his chair, “Hours. He’ll take his time. He really enjoys this.”

Chernsky glanced at the two other men in the office, “He doesn’t…do this… with you two?”

Mikhaill shook his head, “No, we’re too old. He saves the full treatment for the young ones.”

“So what do we do now?”

Andrei grimaced, “Wait. Try not to hear anything. Collect the boy afterwards and… settle him down. It usually takes them a while to…to get over it. If they ever do.”

Chernsky shook his head as he turned to go, “Hope the poor kid copes. I’ll keep an eye on him for a few days. Bring him back to barracks… after.”

It was quiet in the office for some time. Both men tapped softly on their comconsoles, pretending to have important work to do. Now and then a sound would penetrate the office, a choked cry, a chair scraped back, a fist hitting the wall. They carefully ignored it all.

Lunchtime came and went, but they stayed at their desks.

Finally, hours later, the door swung open silently, and a very subdued private almost staggered out of the inner office. There were tear stains on his face, and the boy was trembling as if he was chilled. Wordlessly Andrei stood and took the boy by one arm to lead him back to his quarters.

Mikhaill glanced into the inner office. Vorkosigan was passed out, sprawled forward over his desk and snoring gently.

Another day at the office.

He shook his head. Every commandant had his funny little ways. They were all here for a reason, and that reason was usually one you didn’t want to know about. In Vorkosigan’s case….

The man was brilliant, ruined, bullheaded, a genius, a disaster, and almost a magician. If only he’d stop doing this to the boys. By the time he’d finished with one the kid was never the same. He took them into that office, and… Mikhaill had watched, and listened, the second time. He and Andrei had rigged a small vid and sound pickup, to find out why the first boy had reeled out in shock, too stunned to talk.

And they’d watched as Aral Vorkosigan stole the boy’s soul. He’d talked, he’d paced the room, he’d gone through every step of his own career, the high points – and unparalleled high points they were, for Admiral Vorkosigan of the Komarran invasion. And he’d gone through every mistake he’d made, every political machination of his enemies. He’d gone even further back, to Mad Yuri’s massacre, and the civil war that followed. Way back to the Cetagandan invasion and the military strategies of his brilliant General father. To the way he’d done things, the way he should have done things, the amazing strategies and the heartbreaking errors. His description of the Solstice Massacre could turn a man’s stomach, even an experienced sergeant. Then he’d talk about the future, and what Barrayar could be, would have to be, to step up to the rest of the galaxy. The impact on those raw boys was almost cataclysmic.

The effect of the whole thing, hours of strategy and tactics, of sweeping battles on land an in space, of victories and bitter defeats, triumph and heartbreak, was always the same. The boys staggered out full of fire and inspiration. It wasn’t good enough for them to be rank and file any more. They’d sign up for courses, apply for anything they could – that last one, Koudelka, had actually applied for officer training. He had the educational standards, but his widowed mother couldn’t afford the training college so he’d signed on as a grunt instead. But Vorkosigan had not only inspired the boy, he was paying for the college. So they’d lost another one. By the time the man finished he’d have shaken up every grunt on the base.

Mikhaill still shuddered when he remembered some of the things Aral Vorkosigan had said. The horrors, the pain. That would stay inside his head forever. The triumphs too, but each one with a bitter aftertaste, when you reckoned up the cost. Didn’t the man realise the cruelty of what he was doing? Taking boys who could have a perfectly good, rewarding career, do their twenty or even their forty, work their way up to a few stripes and a nice warm desk job, then retire on a pension. With no horrors walking beside them, whispering in their ears. But no, he revved them up and sent them out, to strive for the worst, most dangerous and miserable jobs. Glory, and pain. That was the story of the man, and it’s what he brought to all those around him.

Sometimes, Mikhaill wondered if the glory was worth the pain. But so far he’d managed to push those thoughts away. Thinking like that would make man apply for ship duty, there were whispers of something big coming, a man could find opportunities to do something heroic.

Idly he tapped the comconsole and pulled up some transfer papers. It would be so easy to fill them out, put them in the pile for Vorkosigan to sign, and he’d be on a ship somewhere, waiting to be a hero.

Or waiting to die, of course. Glory and pain.

He watched as his fingers began to tap the comconsole, and his name appeared on the forms.

Aral Vorkosigan was dangerous. But… he stole your soul, he whispered glorious temptations until long-dead ambitions shuddered back to life. Besides, what could happen? Even if he did get ship duty, there was nothing going on right now. Probably a few patrols around Komarr was the most exciting thing he’d see.

Mikhaill watched as the form printed out as a flimsy. Then put his fate on the next pile for signing.


End file.
